**Love Without the Right to Closeness**
Dr. Eleanor Whitmore adjusted her white coat and glanced at the clock. Four hours remained in her shift, but exhaustion already weighed on her. The neurology ward hummed with its usual bustle—nurses flitted between rooms, and relatives murmured in quiet corners.
“Dr. Whitmore, you have a visitor,” said young nurse Katie, peering into the office.
“Who is it?”
“A relative of the patient in room seven. Mr. Thompson, I think.”
Eleanor nodded and set aside the medical chart she’d been reviewing. *Thompson.* The name made her pulse quicken, though she fought to steady herself.
A tall man in his fifties, greying at the temples with weary brown eyes, stepped in. Alex Thompson carried a bag of fruit and looked uneasy.
“Afternoon, Doctor. How’s my wife doing?”
“Please, sit,” Eleanor gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “Margaret’s condition is stable. She’s responding well to treatment.”
Alex exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“Thank God. I’ve been beside myself all week. When she had that attack, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lose her.”
Eleanor watched him, the familiar ache tightening in her chest—an ache that had taken root six months ago and refused to fade.
“Your wife is strong, Mr. Thompson. The stroke wasn’t severe, and her speech is already improving. With proper care, she’ll recover.”
“Thank you. For everything.” He met her gaze squarely. “Margaret’s told me you go above and beyond for her. More than the others.”
Eleanor looked away. It was true—she *did* spend extra time with Margaret. Not out of duty, but guilt gnawing at her insides.
“It’s my job. Every patient deserves attention.”
“Still, I’m grateful. May I see her?”
“Of course. Just don’t overtire her.”
Alex stood but lingered.
“Doctor, may I ask you something personal?”
Her stomach clenched.
“Go on.”
“Are you married?”
The question hung between them. In his eyes, she saw the same torment that plagued her.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m not.”
“I see. Forgive the intrusion.”
He turned to leave but paused at the door.
“Eleanor, I just wanted to say… if things were different—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “Please.”
With a nod, he left. Alone, Eleanor pressed her palms to her eyes, fighting tears. Outside, spring rain pattered against the window.
It had begun last October, when Margaret was admitted after a minor stroke. Alex visited daily—bringing homemade meals, reading to her, sharing news. At first, Eleanor observed their devotion with clinical interest. Such care was rare in her line of work.
But slowly, she found herself waiting for his visits, lingering near room seven when he was there. And he, too, seemed drawn to her—asking after Margaret’s treatment, thanking her, their conversations drifting to books and films. Nothing improper.
Yet feelings don’t ask permission. They arrive uninvited, heedless of circumstance.
Margaret was discharged after three weeks. Eleanor tried to forget the fluttering in her chest whenever Alex was near.
Then, in February, Margaret suffered a second stroke—far worse. Alex was ashen-faced when the ambulance arrived.
“Save her,” he’d begged, gripping Eleanor’s arm outside the ICU. “She’s my everything. Thirty years together.”
*Thirty years.* Eleanor had repeated the number silently. Three decades of shared life—and what did she have? An empty flat, her work, and this hopeless love for another woman’s husband.
Now, as she entered room seven, Margaret set aside her magazine. Despite her illness, she looked composed—silver hair neatly styled, a touch of makeup.
“Doctor, sit with me a moment. There’s something I’d like to say.”
Eleanor tensed. Something in Margaret’s tone unsettled her.
“How are you feeling? Any headaches?”
“None. My speech is nearly back. I’ll be home soon.”
“That’s excellent progress.”
Margaret studied her.
“Doctor, may I speak plainly? Woman to woman?”
Eleanor’s skin prickled.
“Of course.”
“You’re lovely, clever, kind. Why are you alone?”
“Just… never found the right person. Work keeps me busy.”
Margaret nodded. “I’m fifty-eight. I’ve seen enough to recognize a woman’s heart.”
Eleanor clenched her hands.
“Margaret, what are you saying?”
“I’ve seen how you look at my Alex. And how he looks at you.”
Silence. Eleanor’s denial died on her lips.
“You’re mistaken.”
“No. And I’m not angry. Alex is a good man—any woman would be drawn to him.”
“Margaret, I assure you—”
“I know. *Nothing’s* happened. Because you’re decent people. But the feeling is there, isn’t it?”
Eleanor lowered her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Margaret’s grip on her hand tightened. “I’m dying.”
“Don’t say that! Your prognosis—”
“I *know*, Doctor. There’ll be more strokes. One will take me—soon.”
Eleanor started to protest, but the certainty in Margaret’s stare silenced her.
“Alex is exhausted,” Margaret continued. “Thirty years, and now I’m a burden.”
“You’re not. He loves you.”
“He does. But I see what this is costing him.” She squeezed Eleanor’s fingers. “I want to ask you a favor.”
“What?”
“When I’m gone… look after him.”
Eleanor recoiled.
“Margaret, I can’t—”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s *wrong.* I won’t—”
Margaret smiled sadly. “You think you’ll have a choice? The heart wants what it wants.”
Eleanor stood abruptly. “I have rounds to finish.”
“Just think on it. And don’t punish yourself. Love’s a gift—even when it comes at the wrong time.”
In the corridor, she nearly collided with Alex, who carried white lilies.
“Evening, Doctor. How is she?”
“Stable,” Eleanor replied, averting her gaze.
“You seem… distant. Did I upset you earlier?”
She studied him—the tired eyes, the flowers clutched for his wife. A good man, loyal to his family.
“Alex, we need to talk. Privately.”
He followed her to her office. The ward had quieted; her shift neared its end.
“You wanted to speak?” he asked, shutting the door.
She took a steadying breath. “Margaret knows. About us.”
Alex paled. “Eleanor, I—”
“We’re adults. Let’s not lie.”
He sank into the chair. “You’re right. I… care for you. For the first time in thirty years. And I hate myself for it.”
“And I care for you. The guilt eats at me too.”
Their shared gaze held more intimacy than any touch.
“What do we do?” he murmured.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
Eleanor hesitated. “Your wife… she’s worse than she seems.”
Alex stiffened. “Explain.”
“Recurrent strokes take a toll. Her heart, her brain… her body’s failing.”
“How long?”
“A month. Perhaps six.”
Alex buried his face in his hands. “God, I *love* her. How can I—?”
Eleanor ached to comfort him but stayed back. “You’re human. Love isn’t something we control.”
“But this isn’t right.”
“Betraying her *now* would be wrong. But feeling as we do? That’s just… life.”
He lifted his head. “What are you suggesting?”
“Be with her. Love her until the end. After that… we’ll see.”
“And if I can’t bear it? If my feelings for you make me a worse husband?”
“Then we part ways. I’ll transfer her care.”
Long silence. Finally, he nodded. “We’ll wait.”
As he rose to leave, she said, “Alex?”
He turned.
“Margaret isn’t angry. She… *blessed* us.”
He didn’t look back. “She’s remarkable.”
“Yes. So we owe it to her to be worthy.”
Alone again, Eleanor stared at the files on her desk. Love without the right to closeness—unspoken, restrained, existing only in glances and half-finished sentences. Perhaps *this* was true love: the kind that sacrifices, that waits, that endures in silence.
Margaret’s chart told a grim truth. There would be weeks or months of stolen moments in hospital corridors, of hushed conversations about her decline, of longing glances heavy with everything unsaid.
And afterward? Either a happiness bought with loss, or a parting forced by conscience.
For now, they could only wait—and hope that this love,Six months later, as autumn leaves swirled outside the hospital window, Eleanor placed a single white lily on Margaret’s grave and took Alex’s trembling hand—not as a secret anymore, but as a promise kept.
